03 MAN FROM UNCLE: The Time Before Now Affair
by Dan Bivens
Summary: What would happen if THRUSH could, somehow, go into U.N.C.L.E.'s past to kill a much younger Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo? Could this be something even our favorite Men from U.N.C.L.E. could stop? Read before THE RETURN OF R.A.G.E. AFFAIR
1. Chapter 1

**THE TIME BEFORE NOW AFFAIR**

Act 1

"This just keeps getting better…"

Located in London, England, just south of Stafford Place, dangerously close to Buckingham Palace, itself, was a freshly fabricated super-secret location ostensibly civilian in actual above-ground surroundings, yet, in actuality, the categorical heart of THRUSH activities on this side of the vast Atlantic.

Some six-hundred meters beneath said street, within walking distance of the accepted seat of British royalty, THRUSH had reestablished a subterranean, the second largest in the whole world, headquarters from which such as the fully half-scarred countenance of Darien Driscoll acted as supreme master of all THRUSH's secret sites and super-terrorist activities.

No longer willing to be looked upon with even the most subconscious reaction of repugnance, Darien Driscoll now hid his half-melted, for lack of a more ameliorate appellation to essentially describe the extensive scarring defining one-half of the THRUSH chieftain's once-handsome facial features, as well as one black-gloved appendage, underneath an expensive, purplish silken hood with a single perfectly aligned eyehole, positioned precisely against that singularly remaining good eye.

Strangely, such simply solidified the overall look of a supremely perceived leader of an underground counter-everything organization as secretively held hidden from the rest of the world as readily as any of the four or five U.N.C.L.E. headquarters officially fronted by quite legitimized businesses.

Such as…

In New York City, a couple of city streets south of the United Nations headquarters, where once it had been successfully fronted by Del Floria's, a tiny tailor's retail store, and, now, the supposedly official site of a smallish Starbucks coffee emporium, a dead giveaway as to its nonofficial status, should someone care to consider such…

…through a secretive entrance behind semi-fake racks of Starbucks supplies, accessible only via specially preprogrammed agent-only plastic keycards…

…down stainless steel halls built to last and to withstand explosive forces up to and including an exterior-placed small suitcase Nuke…

…past numerous rooms wherein U.N.C.L.E. employees, each appropriately dressed and brandishing clip-on upside-down triangle, and color-coded, badges with section-specific one-to-two digit integers…

…lastly, entering the anteroom just this side of the always closed-and-magnetically locked blast-proof door behind which the current director of the New York U.N.C.L.E., **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement, HQ could almost always be found, after an U.N.C.L.E. executive secretary/receptionist, sometimes a male and sometimes a female, acknowledged active agents' arrival via attaching of proper upside-down triangle badges…

…before fingertip-tapping a pressure-sensitive flashing control square in order to unlock and open said blast-proof inner office door…

…so that summoned U.N.C.L.E. operatives could attend a top secret pre-mission affair briefing with this U.N.C.L.E. Number 1, Section 1 personage…

"Be seated, gentlemen," said an already seated Allison Hall, beautiful-but-all business as well as exceptionally proud of the fact she currently wore the official upside-down triangular/color-coded U.N.C.L.E. badge proclaiming that such as she was the Number "1" over this decades-old headquarters of the world-wide super-secret organization.

Sitting across said circular, smooth metal escritoire, currently in a couple of ultra-modern armchairs, each wearing attached-to-coat pocket upside-down triangle tags specifically color-coded for Section 2 with operative-pertinent numbers "2" and "11", respectively, via two over-the-hill individuals called Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo.

Both previously retired from active U.N.C.L.E. service and, since then, by a short series of mere months, reactivated and given two important mission affairs that, quite literally, kept the Free World from falling into the heartless clutches of the recently resurrected, truly evil, entity known as THRUSH, **T**echnological **H**ierarchy for the **R**emoval of **U**ndesirables and the **S**ubjugation of **H**umanity.

"Have you heard anything pertaining to this impending mission affair, Mr. Kuryakin…Mr. Solo?" asked, almost rhetorically, the lovely Allison Hall, prevailing leader of the New York U.N.C.L.E. HQ, whom secretly carried quite the torch for the still handsome, after all these decades, Russian-born U.N.C.L.E. agent, but would never openly acknowledge such, especially to Illya.

"Not much, Ms. Hall," sarcastically said a smugly smirking Napoleon Solo, purposely promoting a certain amount of constant tension between a "boss" who, quite accurately, could be considered a daughter of the salt-and-pepper, handsomely dapper, hazel-eyed man from U.N.C.L.E. "Something to do with a London-based THRUSH?"

"Yes," said Illya as logically cold as usual during such official pre-affair briefings, "which brings to mind a question, Ms. Hall: Why doesn't the UK-based U.N.C.L.E. tend to this? Why us?"

Shooting a hard glare that silently bespoke of his captious desire to carry out any mission affair for any reason, since first tasting such excitement once again after a dozen or so years of inactivity as a retired operative, Napoleon hoped his longtime friend and fellow U.N.C.L.E. agent had not, in essence, tossed a proverbial bucket of water onto a barely burning campfire.

All Agent 11, Section 2, cared about in regards to being sent across the Atlantic was the potential A-type gratification to be had. End of discussion.

"Primarily, Illya, because parliament and the British prime minister," said a seductively stoic chieftain with big, bedroom eyes so seemingly wasted on someone so hell-bent upon such professionalism, "have recently curtailed all support, monetarily as well as militarily, for such top-secret sections of British society. At least, until certain elections have taken place. Besides…I believed the two of you would be best-suited to face down this THRUSH chief."

Suddenly perking up, while leaning forward just a little in his ultra-modern armchair, Napoleon slowly said, "Darien Driscoll…is in London?"

Nodding deeply, Ms. Hall half-swiveled her ultra-modern chair in the general direction of the just-opening, via flashing pressure-sensitive desktop control, stainless steel wall behind which awaited a high-def plasma screen that, again at the urging of a finger-tapped pressure-sensitive flashing colored control square, commenced displaying a wide variety of information-laden images even as the beautiful leader of the New York U.N.C.L.E. coldly elaborated.

"Based solely upon just-received Intel from a litany of international groups," she said solemnly, occasionally glancing at these two aging agents, even though Illya Kuryakin's perpetually cute, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Russian-American appearance continued to intrigue her emotionally, "this is where THRUSH has established another subterranean center. One, apparently, on the verge of probable completion of a retro-temporal system quite capable of transporting at least two THRUSH agents to…"

"Uh," interrupted Illya a second or so after sharing a tense say-what? instant with Napoleon Solo, "excuse me, Ms. Hall, but did you say 'retro-temporal'?"

"Yes, that's right, Mr. Kuryakin."

"As in," Napoleon Solo added by way of fishing for a more precise explanation from the lovely lady in control of the New York U.N.C.L.E., "'going back in time'? As in…time travel?"

"Yes, Mr. Solo," she said tensely and tersely, although her carefully covered affectivity toward Illya Kuryakin slightly staggered her response. "Uhm, we, uh, have very reliable evidence that, uh, THRUSH scientists and technicians have developed a device that can, quite literally, transport two agents at a time several decades into the past. To 1964, specifically. Once there, they intend to travel to New York City and, uhm…"

"And," cut in Illya with a feeling of finality to tone and affectation, "look up two younger U.N.C.L.E. agents…to kill."

"'Two younger U.N.C.L.E. agents?'" momentarily murmured Napoleon, before troubling realization settled into his slightly less scientifically-inclined forethought. "Uh, by that do you mean…us?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Solo," said Ms. Hall with a shallow shake of her head, while nervously clearing her throat. "Although our scientists and technicians aren't absolutely certain your, uh, deaths in a past time period would irrevocably affect the future…our present…it, uh, is nevertheless believed…"

"Better safe than sorry," interjected an inwardly anguished Napoleon Solo. "So, what're we supposed to do…fly over there and attempt to infiltrate and destroy this 'time-travel' contraption before…?"

"It may come to something much, much harder, Mr. Solo," said Ms. Hall somewhat stonily, having already deactivated the plasma screen so that high-def imagery immediately halted even as the blast-proof metallic wall closed and silently secured itself. "It may require that both of you…return to the past as well. And, as I'm sure I don't have to explain to you, Mr. Kuryakin, should one or both of you physically encounter your past-time Selves…"

"Great," groaned a graying Napoleon Solo while slowly sinking into the soft solidity of his ultra-modern chair, even as Illya Kuryakin seemed to suddenly become intensely intrigued. "This just keeps getting better, doesn't it?"


	2. Chapter 2

Act 2

"Did I ask for a diatribe…?"

The exclusively private Learjet, solely used by U.N.C.L.E. agents of the singular caliber, no pun intended!, as Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, currently flew fast, some 600-plus miles-per-hour, and high, from 40,000 to 50,000 feet or more, over the vast Atlantic Ocean in a steady easterly direction.

Taking two out-of-retirement operatives, one blonde-haired, blue-eyed with an impossibly nearly line-free face, the other handsome and dapper with salt-and-pepper, expensively styled, hair, toward what might just prove to be the most important, as well as impossible, mission affair ever.

"Do you really believe THRUSH has some sort of 'time machine' in this underground London-located…?" asked Napoleon with a more than a little self-doubt about anything so seemingly, on the surface, ridiculous.

"It is possible, Napoleon," quickly cut in Illya, now looking into his friend and fellow U.N.C.L.E. agent's inquisitive eyes. "I made a point of pulling up, on HQ's supercomputers, everything currently applicable to such a temporal twisting equation-supported set of devices that…"

"Illya," quickly interjected Napoleon amidst exacerbated sighs, "can't you ever answer a simple straightforward question without some quasi-scientific lecture that you know I could care less about?"

"I though I had answered the question straightforwardly, Napoleon," shrugged a half-smiling in bemusement Illya Kuryakin, while quickly glancing out an oval portal window at the endless sea stretching out far below the above-the-clouds Learjet. "But if you want me to bottom line my response…according to Einstein's own equations and their present-day re-interpretations, time travel is very possible."

"You see?" said Napoleon smugly. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

But Illya wasn't finished, and continued, "It would, however, require a miles-long subterranean super-subatomic accelerator to build up the necessary aggregation of concentrated quantum tunneling effects, before introducing such into a specially designed smallish chamber wherein two THRUSH operatives, and their weapons, would await the sustained disruption of space-time in an intimately localized cross-section of same. That about answer it for you, Napoleon?"

Looking ludicrously close to a simpleton attempting to understand some simplistic explanation of a mundane middle-of-the-road Truth, a gaping mouthed, narrowed eyed Napoleon Solo said, "Uh…thanks, Illya. When you put it like that, how could I not have seen it?"

After exaggeratedly rolling his hazel eyes once again and groaning audibly, the blue-eyed Illya couldn't help but be much more amused, as well as being filled with consummate camaraderie in regards to the aging agent with whom he'd gone on more mission affairs than he could quickly count.

But, as Illya allowed a near-photographic memory to reach back over the long lost decades of secret agent activities, throughout the Sixties and some of the Seventies, he found enough examples of past mission affairs that seemed just as impossible at the time. Just as their pen communicators were cutting edge some forty years before present-day PDAs.

Had Napoleon forgotten, for example, their mission affair on October 6th, 1964 wherein fear-inducing gas had been developed by a terrorist group that, on the surface at least, held no ties to THRUSH?

Had he forgotten Arthur Farnley Selwyn, a.k.a. Shark, who, also in 1964, was so convinced an impending thermonuclear holocaust was on the horizon that he had kidnapped important persons and placed them on his private little "Noah's Ark"?

And what about the Nazi scientist who'd actually been keeping a still-living Adolf Hitler in suspended animation? Or the stealing of an experimental "will gas" by someone seeking to single-handedly establish himself as the new Alexander the Great? Or the Ultimate Computer developed by THRUSH scientists and technicians in 1965, when the only computers in use, even at U.N.C.L.E., were far from Ultimate? Or the full-blown cyborg encountered on September 23rd, 1966? And on and on and on and on.

Having reconsidered such remembered mission affairs, extending not only throughout the remainder of the Sixties, but well into the Seventies, Illya Kuryakin considered the very real likelihood that the "impossible" seemed to be the norm. So why should a THRUSH time-travel system be any different?

The sudden beeping! sound announcing an incoming transmission via pocketed pen communicator caused Napoleon to pull said cylindrical device from the inside pocket of his expensively tailored suit's coat, quickly manipulating it into a "cutting edge" communications contrivance, before saying seriously, "Solo here."

"Mr. Solo," said a male voice, damn it all!, via the speaker-microphone combination atop the held-between-fingers fully functional Comm-pen, "we've just received satellite confirmation of the activation of subterranean power systems in the general underground location of THRUSH's England-based HQ. U.N.C.L.E. techs have said such could mean…"

"That they are powering up their time-travel mechanism," finished Illya, overheard via the still active pen communicator currently held in Napoleon's hand. "But I doubt they shall be sending THRUSH operatives into the past without first testing said system. We should still have time to…"

"What Illya means," firmly interjected Napoleon into the microphone-speaker top of the converted-from-ink pen Comm-device, a playful expression on his handsome face, "is that we'll have plenty of time to put ourselves in severe danger. Solo out."

While quickly converting the pen communicator back into its default form and replacing that into his coat's inner pocket, Napoleon Solo shrugged, "I just didn't think I could survive another 'super-science' speech by you before reaching London, Illya. Now…do me a favor and watch an in-flight movie or something. As for me…I need a stiff drink or two."

Even as Napoleon proceeded in pouring himself a single malt whiskey into a cut crystal glass, Illya could hardly keep a smile of friendliness from his fair-haired expression.

Who better than Napoleon Solo to face one's worst fears in regards to an actual time-traveling mission affair?

At that self-same moment, more than six hundred meters beneath the streets of Stafford Place in London, England…

"How goes the testing?" asked the silk-hooded leader of THRUSH, Darien Driscoll, even as scientific technicians in crisp smocks continued operating super-advanced, even in the 21st Century, control consoles situated in the observation blister overlooking the business end of the miles-long super-subatomic accelerator contrivance.

"Mr. Driscoll, sir," said the middle-aged head science-tech, Dr. Sabastian Malachi, above the prevailing roar heard from far below said lead-glassed observation blister. "As you know from earlier briefings, the precise subatomic energy balance must be acquired and sustained prior to the placing of living THRUSH agents into…"

"Did I ask for a diatribe, Dr. Malachi?" snappishly said a less-than-patient purple-hooded half-faced THRUSH chieftain with narrowed eye visible via the single eye hole. "All I want to know is how much longer until time-travel is active?"

Falling all over himself in order to form a simpler reply, Dr. Malachi stammered, "Y-yes s-sir, M-Mister D-Driscoll. Uh…if this t-test proves s-successful…th-three hours at the w-worst."

"Very well," said the silken hooded, single black gloved THRUSH chief as he turned to exit, "keep me apprised. I want to be present the instant my two 'temporal assassins' are ready to go back to 1964."

"Y-yes, M-Mister D-Driscoll, s-sir," nervously nodded Dr. Sabastian Malachi while returning his attention to Test Number One, about to be executed directly below.

Walking along the interconnected corridors, accompanied by armed THRUSH thugs wearing the time-honored jumpsuits-and-berets, a smirking-beneath-silken hood Darien Driscoll quietly considered his desperate plans.

"To think, in a few short hours I shall rid myself forever of two over-the-hill U.N.C.L.E. agents. Then…the whole world shall be mine! Ha, ha, ha, hahaha!"


	3. Chapter 3

**THE TIME BEFORE NOW AFFAIR**

Chapter 3

"…we might've actually planned for this"

After arriving at Heathrow Airport, some 27 kilometers Southwest of downtown London, and acquiring a pre-arranged GPS-equipped car, which, naturally, meant Illya Kuryakin would drive since Napoleon Solo still bore ill will for such high-tech contrivances…

"If my own general calculations are correct, Napoleon," said a science-minded, mission affair-centered blond-haired, blue-eyed, almost line-free faced U.N.C.L.E. Agent 2, Section 2, while following perfectly the moving map via GPS screen, "we should arrive at Stafford Place in less than…"

"Have you given any thought as to how we're supposed to get down into this subterranean THRUSH headquarters, my Russian friend?" Napoleon asked simply while successfully pulling Illya's attention away from a purely factual look at a decidedly not commonplace mission affair.

"Well, Napoleon," began Illya in ready response, "after the post-briefing R-and-D done by headquartered supercomputers, we know which ground floor flat acts as the entry point into…"

"Again, Illya," sternly inserted Napoleon Solo while rolling his eyes and issuing an exasperated sigh, "the question was: have you given any thought as to how we're supposed to get down into this subterranean THRUSH headquarters? Not where the entry point was located…but how the hell are we going to get in that particular flat to use it? It's a pretty sure bet that THRUSH has XM-8 toting, beret-wearing goons just waiting to…"

"Not XM-8s, Napoleon," cut in Illya matter-of-factly.

"What?"

"You said…"

"I know what I said," puzzled Napoleon with his still handsome, after forty years!, face screwing itself into a perplexed scowl. "Why did you say THRUSH was no longer using Heckler-and-Koch XM-8 full auto rifles?"

"I did some digging just after our meeting with Ms. Hall," coolly commented Illya Kuryakin, "and it seems that, for some reason, THRUSH operatives, those wearing the jumpsuits and the berets, have developed an arms affinity with new Heckler-and-Koch firearms, using 4.6mm rounds. The MP7 A1, which, as you no doubt know from weekly weapons work when not on active assignment, can penetrate Kevlar vests made of…"

"I know all about the MP7 A1, Illya," bemoaned Napoleon in a manner meant to top, in this particular field at least, his irritatingly intelligent Russian-born co-agent. "Compact. Lightweight. Full machinegun capable. 30-round clips. Can penetrate, out to 200-plus meters, vests containing 1.6mm titanium plates and 20 layers of Kevlar. Flash suppressor muzzle. And, if THRUSH is using them, have probably replaced standard sights with a compact night vision capable system. Something that is clearly a running theme with whatever weapon THRUSH decides to supply their 'soldiers'."

"Very good, Napoleon," said Illya a little too expressly, as if to add sarcastic insult to intellectual injury with someone whose expertise extended to a multitude of items, especially where lovely ladies were involved, simply not those that are essentially scientific. "Did that hurt? I mean, that's generally a lot more specifics than Napoleon Solo usually elucidates."

"Ha…ha, and…ha," mocked Napoleon disingenuously, "I can't tell you how funny that is, Agent Kuryakin. All I'll say, for the record, is that if we do end up going back in time to 1964 and we get killed…either the past Illya and Napoleon or the present…that is, the real us…then I just thought I'd illustrate the fact that I'm not a completely incompetent idiot."

"Ah, come now, Napoleon," playfully replied Illya in mock concern. "Nothing's 'completely' anything."

While eyeballing Illya, who'd stifled a self-amused smirk, the two fell into relative silence for the remainder of the moderately rapid trip into that part of London located within a proverbial stone's throw from the historically famous Buckingham Palace.

I wonder, thought Napoleon Solo seriously, as Illya continued to calmly and quietly navigated their U.N.C.L.E.-supplied vehicle through gradually growing traffic. Did THRUSH chieftain Darien Driscoll choose so close a location leading down into his multi-level lair on purpose…perhaps to prevent any massed military attacks due to the nearness of British royalty…or was it simply a case of satanic serendipity?

"Well," grunted a glad-to-be-there Illya Kuryakin as he pulled the U.N.C.L.E. car directly across the street from the building locality. "We're here."

"Yeah," grunted Napoleon Solo, even as he proceeded in swiftly transforming an innocuous-looking ink pen into a sophisticated satellite-accessing communications mechanism, cutting edge for its decades-gone day, and still a little true in the 21st Century. "Open Channel D. Open Channel D."

"Channel D open, Mr. Solo," a female voice, at last!, sensuously said via the speaker-microphone combination atop the slim cylindrical device. "Report, please."

With a subconscious smile meant for any and all ladies, which, of course, could not be observed via an audio-only connection, Napoleon said, "Illya Kuryakin and I have arrived at the above-ground target. Suggest radio silence until further notice. Solo out."

A ghost-of-a-smile facial expression denoted Napoleon's innermost sense of satisfaction in regards to a potentially beautiful Channel D U.N.C.L.E. operative speaking via cross-Atlantic transmission, from New York City headquarters to carried Comm-system by one of two agents sitting in a parked car so embarrassingly close to London's venerable Buckingham Palace.

"Ready, my Russian friend?"

"Always, my American friend."

With that, the two over-the-hill U.N.C.L.E. operatives, still wearing tailor-made suits no doubt costing more, combined of course, than the perpetually-leased sedan that had brought both from Heathrow, trotted across the street called Stafford Place.

Moving fast-yet-stealthy, the two agents entered the building wherein a secretly held-by-THRUSH flat stood as entry-point into a substantial subsurface edifice quite possibly larger than what U.N.C.L.E. Agents 2 and 11 had encountered in Canada's wilderness and in the Slavic seaport city of Aqtau, Kazakhstan during these last set of months since their reactivation.

For this site held, deep underground, a miles-long super-subatomic accelerator with which, theoretically, two THRUSH operatives would time-travel back to 1964 in order to, ostensibly, assassinate two forty-year younger U.N.C.L.E. agents who had, more times than such as Darien Driscoll deigned to address, saved the entire planet and its peoples from certain destruction and/or domination by such as THRUSH.

Still tugging at the forethought of both recently out-of-retirement U.N.C.L.E. operatives was the seemingly impossible notion that they might simply cease to exist should these two time-traveling THRUSH thugs, no doubt dressed in Sixties-styled suits, succeed in shooting them dead at their clandestine career-creating start.

Thus making it possible for THRUSH to succeed during their first chieftain's, Andrew Vulcan, rabid bid for world domination.

The only thing bugging such as Napoleon Solo was the possibility that the deaths of their past Selves might irrevocably erase their present Selves.

Something someone as amusingly narcissistic as Napoleon definitely did not wish to take place.

For the more mission affair transfixed Illya Kuryakin, it was a case of wishing to save untold millions from unnecessary torment and/or utter obliteration.

A light knuckle-knocking on the double-locked, naturally, door acting as façade for the flat-in-question and the two U.N.C.L.E. agents, silencer-equipped, before knocking, Walther P38s already in hand, await the inevitable unlocking/opening of said door by one or more THRUSH thugs before…

"Greetings from our Uncle!"

Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft!

Six THRUSH hoodlums, dressed in the expected jumpsuits-and-berets, carrying, as earlier explained by Illya, ready-to-fire, non-silencer affixed, Heckler-Koch MP7 A1s, now lay dead and bleeding out via head shots on the quite comfortably furnished flat's floors.

"Well," quipped Napoleon Solo after re-locking the flat's front door and glancing all about the more-than-adequate décor that included a satellite-accessible, large-screen plasma television, complete with SurroundSound, "nice to see, in England at least, THRUSH has no problem with presenting a cozier environment for their less-important operatives. Maybe we should request a cost-of-living increase when we report back to New York, Illya."

Ignoring Napoleon's sarcastically playful lamenting, Illya Kuryakin quickly located that one fake area of the otherwise well-adorned walls whereupon the super-secret subterranean-bound elevator could be called.

"Let's go," tensely suggested Illya, silencer-equipped Walther P38 still in hand, even as Napoleon, his silenced pistol still in hand as well, hurriedly followed the blonde-haired Russian-born U.N.C.L.E. agent inside.

"Wonder if there's any hidden cameras in this elevator car," he pondered aloud even as the door, along with its false wall, closed to allow for a gentle-yet-swift downward drop from ground level to sub-level.

"I don't know," absently said Illya while pulling, from the pack of pistol attachments situated behind his suit-coat covered back, everything necessary for swiftly restructuring a pistol into the unique-to-U.N.C.L.E. full auto carbine with extra-long ammo clips in place of the shorter standard ones. "But I believe in erring on the side of circumspection."

"Uh," sardonically said Napoleon, while quickly altering his own Walther P38 into an U.N.C.L.E. carbine, "if that's your way of taking the classic 'Always be prepared' motto of the Boy Scouts, Illya, I'm all for it."

After a swiftly passing several seconds of unresponsiveness, Illya finally furrowed his brow and turned slightly perplexed blue eyes toward his friend and fellow agent…

"I wasn't aware you were ever a Boy Scout, Napoleon."

With a sexually sinister half-smile, Napoleon Solo said, "Only to get as close to cute little Girl Scouts as possible, my friend."

Nodding his amused understanding, Illya fell seriously silent again as the two aging agents proceeded down, down, down, down…

…until, at long last, the elevator halted and its door rumbled open to reveal…

"Looks like the answer to my question about hidden cameras has been answered," said a slowly surrendering-his-weapon Napoleon Solo as both essentially stared down the flash suppressor muzzles of a half-dozen MP7 A1s.

"Too bad I wasn't a Boy Scout," bemoaned Illya while surrendering his U.N.C.L.E. carbine. "Between the two of us, we might've actually planned for this."

END OF CHAPTER 3


	4. Chapter 4

**THE TIME BEFORE NOW AFFAIR**

Chapter 4

"…for a one-eyed, half-faced freak…"

"One would believe," began a grinning-beneath-silken hood, due to his half-scarred countenance thanks to these two U.N.C.L.E. agents, "that you would've learned from before that access into any underground THRUSH headquarters would never be easy or completely unmonitored. Much less this facility. Why didn't you at least, like you did at the Canadian wilderness headquarters, don the jumpsuits-and-berets of a couple of the six shot-to-death guards in the flat above?"

"Maybe," sarcastically said Napoleon Solo with an insultingly sly smirk, "we're getting a little too careless in our old age, Darien, my boy."

Suddenly stepping closer to the secured-to-straight-backed chairs, made of cold medal like before, where two forcefully defrocked of expensive suit's coat and U.N.C.L.E. carbine-converted Walther P38s enemy agents seemed so self-assured, came the hidden-by-purple silk hood, save for the one and only good eye visible via the single, solitary perfectly-aligned eyehole.

As expected, he brought a hard black-gloved backhand against Napoleon that very nearly knocked out the dapper, salt-and-pepper, hazel-eyed enemy of both THRUSH and Darien Driscoll.

"I'll assume that, in order to facilitate the specifics of your mission," Darien's devilishly delighted voice said triumphantly from within the one-eyed hood of purplish silk, "you decided to purposely get caught. Either that…or you truly are moronically ancient."

"Neither," grunted Napoleon while spitting out some blood-tinged saliva due to said backhanded blow, leaving his jaw hurting like hell!, with his wit still intact. "We just don't have much respect for a half-faced follow-up to Andrew Vulcan…or any of the dozens of other really tough THRUSH leaders Illya and I have had the pleasure of destroying. Maybe a different color handkerchief hood would…?"

Once again, the black gloved hand slammed staggeringly hard into the side of Napoleon Solo's otherwise handsome face, bringing forth ever more blood-tinged spittle and unexpressed pain.

"You know, Napoleon, I'd love to spend the next hour beating the hell out of you," said Darien Driscoll after finally reining in his hatred and rage at the thought of something much more important. "But it's almost time to actually send two THRUSH operatives…skilled assassins, really…back to 1964 to kill two overtly annoying agents of the **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement in New York. It'll be interesting to see what happens to you…after your earlier Selves are shot dead."

Just as the silken hooded THRUSH chieftain turned to exit the smallish subterranean room, to be left guarded by only two thugs toting MP7 A1s…

"What about Andrew Vulcan in 1964, Mr. Driscoll?" called Illya Kuryakin with feigned deference. "If Napoleon and I are dead during that all-important first mission affair…what happens to you in this present-day situation? Will his unstopped plan prevent the events which eventually lead to your prospective rise to absolute control over THRUSH? Will you simply remain a lowly lieutenant to his unflagging leadership?"

Such caused the silken hooded, single black gloved Darien Driscoll to slowly look in Illya's secured-to-chair direction in order to ominously reply, "He shall also be assassinated, Mr. Kuryakin. So that such a reversal does not occur. But I shall not be so scarred as to have to hide my hand and head as I do now. Not with both of you long gone…in the past and the present."

No sooner did the hooded head of THRUSH swiftly exit, with most of the jumpsuit-and-beret wearing heavily armed guards in lock-stepped tow, thus leaving a couple of the thugs behind, than Napoleon Solo looked over at his lifelong colleague…

"Nice try, Illya. You almost caused him to second-guess his sick little plan…for all of a millisecond!"

"Just stalling for time, my American friend," the Russian-born, blonde-headed U.N.C.L.E. agent grinned, while tugging on a pre-selected section of his expensive dress shirt's cuff in order to slip out a small-but-sharp blade he would next use to slice through the PlastiCuffs zip-tying his hands behind the metal straight-backed seat. "All part of a pre-conceived plan by yours truly."

It didn't take long for Napoleon to notice such as he next half-smilingly spoke loud enough to be heard by the two armed-with-MP7 A1s THRUSH thugs…

"I've said this before, Illya, and I'll keep saying it…THRUSH is nothing but a bunch of cowardly dogs so afraid of any U.N.C.L.E. opposition that even two old farts like us pose some sort of threat. Isn't that right, fellows?"

"Shut the 'ell up," snarled one of the two British-born beret-wearing guards still standing in the makeshift confinement room with more than enough Cockney in his tone, not to mention really lousy teeth.

"Yes, well, that's certainly convincing," Napoleon continued to taunt both. "Tell me, boys, did you answer an ad in some white supremacy magazine or did they recruit you two straight out of a gay bar or…"

"I said…shut the 'ell up, ya bloody yank!"

No sooner had the insulted THRUSH thug, with the bad British accent, shouted such than he stepped uncomfortably close to the still-secured Napoleon Solo, with the other thug, also a lowly English ruffian judging by his equally terrible teeth, turning to watch his hoodlum colleague roughly handle the older-by-decades U.N.C.L.E. operative.

After weathering two or three too-solid punches, both to the breadbasket and to the chin, Napoleon said by way of a grunting/groaning hushed aside, "Anytime, my Russian… Ooof!"

Now moving with an agility and voracity betraying the physical fact the blonde-haired, blue-eyed agent was at all aged, Illya quickly used Karate-type blows combined with a Judo-type over-the-shoulder fling…

"W'at the bloody 'ell…?"

No sooner had such escaped the Cockney-sounding THRUSH thug hurting Napoleon, than the still fast-moving, regardless of recent retirement, U.N.C.L.E. agent opened fire, only a short burst, with the taken-from-beaten down Englander MP7 A1…

Brrrrrrrttttt-Brrraatttt!

"Gyii—"

…than the quick-thinking, planning-ahead agent cut away the PlastiCuffs keeping his partially-battered partner, Napoleon Solo, secured to his seat. Then…

"Let's kill the killers before they're sent into our past," swiftly said Napoleon after snatching up the MP7 A1 dropped by his now-dead assailant, "and destroy that damnable device…"

"Yes," chimed in Illya Kuryakin quickly and curtly, "so long as THRUSH has such an impossible machine…all persons of the past, from U.N.C.L.E. operatives to presidents, are endangered. As well as our present."

"C'mon!"

"All past-time sequencers are ready, Mr. Driscoll, sir," said Dr. Sabastian Malachi with a proud grin after having thoroughly tested said device. "Even now the two THRUSH agents chosen by you are ready to step into the **R**etro-temporal **A**nti-**G**amma **E**mitting unit in order to…"

"Activate R.A.G.E., Doctor!" snappishly said an impatiently irritated THRUSH leader even as, from the elevated lead-glassed observation blister, he could see those two handpicked hit men. Both dressed in classic 1964-style suits and ties, as they step into an automatically opening/closing, as well as magnetically locking, multi-faceted spheroid. One acting as energy accretion chamber for the super-accelerated subatomic quantum tunneling dynamism needed to reach to a preprogrammed point whereby physical past-time regression, albeit agonizingly so, could take place.

"Charging system, sir," said Dr. Malachi as the rising roar of the miles-long super- accelerator reached an observation blister-shuddering pre-release power level. "Activating R.A.G.E. in five…four…three…two…"

Brrrrrttttttt-Brrrrraaaa-taaat-atataaaat! Brrraaatttt-Brrrrttttt!

Not only were the gathered guards brandishing their own MP7 A1s, but the scientific-technicians, including Dr. Sabastian Malachi, dropped in blood-drenched lifelessness via some sixty 4.6mm bullets rapidly fired by two just-escaped U.N.C.L.E. agents…

Bzzzzzzzzzzzz-RRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMM-SSSSSSSSSSSSSZZZZZZZ!

…but the intricately interconnected control consoles were basically destroyed…

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

…instantly causing a sudden overload of subatomic quantum tunneling energies that both turned two Sixties-suited THRUSH assassins inside-out in the most excruciatingly bloody fashion conceivable…

pop-SSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

…than the suddenly hood-free, half-scarred, one-eyed Darien Driscoll, evidently ready for anything as well, hurriedly hurled down a tear gas grenade…

"He's…," harshly coughed Napoleon, "getting away…!"

"Can't…," severely retched Illya, "see…to reload…!"

…until, after hurrying out of the tear gas dominated observation blister, all that remained of the evidently escaped Darien Driscoll was the dropped purplish silk cloth previously used to hide his horribly disfigured face…

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

"The device is about to explode!" managed Napoleon after finally catching his breath.

"We have to get out of here! Now!" said Illya immediately after, just as the two THRUSH-armed, ammo clips freshly reloaded, U.N.C.L.E. agents ran far faster than their physically aged exterior implied was remotely manageable.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!

Fortunately for innocent Britons of Stafford Place, as well as the British royalty located at Buckingham Palace not so very far away, the self-destructing R.A.G.E. system was situated so far beneath the British surface and was so supremely reinforced, not to mention the unleashing of unknown anti-energies so impossibly alien within its own subatomic structure, that no one aboveground died.

So, too, had Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, thanks to training and experience that stretched all the way back to said Sixties, executed an escape with only seconds to spare.

Unfortunately, Darien Driscoll was nowhere to be found.

Hours later, having returned via privately-retained Learjet and prearranged car, even though contact had to be made in a manner other than their pen communicators, since they along with two fully-converted U.N.C.L.E. carbines, had been obliterated along with the London-located THRUSH headquarters…

"So," heaved Ms. Allison Hall, head of the New York U.N.C.L.E. HQ, with both tone and affectation, beautiful or not, denoting a disappointment matched only by such shared by Napoleon and Illya. "From your mandatory debriefing, it would appear that Darien Driscoll is still a THRUSH thorn in our side. How is it possible your spray of, uhm, let's see here…ah! Of MP7 A1 machinegun fire killed everyone else except Mr. Driscoll?"

"As we've already explained in our reports, Ms. Hall," Illya slowly said even as Napoleon appeared at the end of his proverbial rope.

"Let's just say," snidely interjected Napoleon, "for a one-eyed half-faced freak…he moved like a ballet dancer."

END


End file.
